Veni
by erisolsies
Summary: "Longer Lasting Than Bronze: We Came, We Saw, We Conquered." The first part of a three-part love story. More info inside. {Aere Perennius pt. one}
1. We are Going to be Friends

Hi everyone! My name is Elize and this is my ridiculously long and involved erisol AU! Warning for language, possible triggers (attempted suicide, self-hate, homophobia, cromit), and yes, eventually, mature content. Once I grow some balls and actually write a fricking sex scene.

This humanstuck au started a long time ago as a roleplay with some friends, and grew into a beautiful story. However, since the Sollux and I had a falling out, I have been unable to share it with anyone. This October, I finally got up the courage to start writing it again, and found myself falling back in love with it, even adding new characters and subplots.

The main pairing here is, of course, erisol, but there is a very strong cromit subplot. as well as some background pairs. I expect to update about once or twice every two weeks, but please don't count on it, I'm a very busy and very lazy person! Also, the story will be written in three parts- Veni, Vidi, Vici- and each part will have around 10 chapters. I've never really been much of a writer, so wish me luck! Comments, questions, suggestions, and constructive criticism are always welcome.

Special thanks to my lovely girlfriend for beta reading and editing this. (also for dealing with my crap ok 3) She's here

Follow my blog for updates and shit. Thank you, and welcome, to Aere Perennius!

3 -E

**Veni.**

**Chapter one- We Are Going to Be Friends**

Your name is Eridan Ampora and, though you are only eleven years old, you tend to stand out in a crowd. You have very light blonde hair, porcelain white freckled skin, and thick glasses that take up nearly all of your face. Lucky they do, too, or else people might ask about your eyes, which are a deep, rich, violet. As if your unusual looks aren't enough, by now, you are old enough to know how important you are, being the heir to a large family fortune, and you carry yourself as such. Shoulders back, head high. You show people what you want in life with every step you take. You tend to get teased about this, however, because the other kids at your private Catholic primary school think you are- and you quote- a "pompous wanker." You don't mind all too much, though, because as long as you are with your best friend, Feferi Peixes, you know you will be ok.

Feferi Peixes is the dark and enchanting girl who lives down the street from you, and the only kid in your class who is richer than you are. You know, because whenever your father is on one of his extensive business trips, you stay at the Peixes estate, where you have your own room. It is painted your favorite shade of violet, the same as your eyes, and decorated nautically. Everything there is nautical, now that you think of it, which you think might be overkill, seeing as both the Ampora and Peixes corporations are on the water, respectively. There are giant tanks of fish on almost every corner of the villa, even outside, containing everything from cuttlefish to manta rays. Even Feferi herself reminds you of the sea, with her deep blue eyes and already forming swimmer's body. She is also quite tan, despite her freckles, from endless hours on the beach. Her blonde hair mirrors that of a mermaid, like the ones in that movie she's always making you watch with her. You don't really mind though; you don't mind any of her odd whims, because you absolutely adore her. Probably too much for your own good.

This fact is pronounced yet again as the two of you walk from the Peixes estate to the Ampora estate this afternoon. Feferi is holding your hand, the way she does, and you feel as though you are floating. You are just friends, best friends, but she is very affectionate it. This is another thing you don't mind. You are far too lenient with this girl. She is rambling on about one of her precious fishy friends, and you aren't really listening, just hearing. You learned that from your parents, who do it pretty much whenever you talk to them.

Your efforts prove mute, however, when you arrive at the pearly white gates to the Ampora estate. Your beautiful friend knits her eyebrows together in her classic expression of concern, and you cock your head at her.

"What's wrong, guppy?" You ask her, oblivious. She shakes her head, pinching her eyes closed, and presses you on into the house. She doesn't even follow you inside, which is odd, because she usually shares afternoon tea with you. You don't have time to be worried for her, however, because when you get through the door, your parents, as well as your favorite cousin, are waiting for you.

Your father is a large man in every direction and, like you, exudes power with everything he does. He is very aware of how important he is, and when he wants something, he gets it. He may have gray hair, but he is no old man. D. R Ampora, as he is affectionately referred to as by his friends, tends to intimidate people quite easily. With his booming voice, 'big and tall' stature, and simply the way he carries himself, he can break the opposition without even having to touch them. He doesn't pay much attention to you, but you understand. He's very busy with owning a major corporation and all, and doesn't have time for mundane familial things, like tossing a football or twisting a wrench.

Your mother, on the other hand, spoils you rotten. A retired model, she is the most beautiful woman you have ever met. (Besides Feferi, of course) You are proud to share a lot of her features, like her wavy blonde hair, long eyelashes, and high cheekbones. She tells you that you will have to beat the girls off with a stick because of her, but so far, they all steer clear of you. She provides a good listening ear, though, and you have cried on her shoulder many a time. She is not tough, like your father is, and encourages you to stay in touch from your feelings rather than hide them from the public. You hardly have anything in common, other than a pretty face, but you are rather close when she isn't on business trips with your father. You think she can be awfully silly and sometimes needs a reality check, but you love her just the same.

You usually don't see much of either of your parents, because they are almost always out of the country, or at least out of town, and you certainly don't see your cousin Cronus, who lives in the states with his family. Whatever this is must be something important.

"Hello father. Hi mum." You greet them, standing idly at the door. You try not to show your worry in your face, instead producing something between a smile and a grimace. Cronus clears his throat, an unlit cigarette caught victim in his mischievous smirk, and you add, sheepishly, "Hey, Cro."

"Good afternoon, my boy." Your father replies formally, and you wonder if he even remembers your name. "Why don't you have a seat?" He gestures to the nearest chair, but you don't want to sit. That would be far too comfortable, and you already feel tense. Plus, it's just what he wants you to do, and you don't want to give him that. You share his stutter (his only flaw, oh how embarrassing, to be so rich, so important, and anything less than perfect) like you share his eyes, which are piercing through your skull, trying to read you- to control you. You sit down.

"Much better. Now, your mother and I have something very important to discuss with you, young man." He begins, and you are suddenly stricken with fear. What did you do? Did he find out about you and Feferi taking out his kayaks last weekend? Or did he hear about how you tried to take underwater photographs with your digital camera?

"You are old enough now to understand how important the family business is, son. The Ampora corporation should be the main priority in all of our lives, but having most of the family living in America, it proves quite difficult to stay active and engaged." Your father speaks to you the way he would his works, no emotion, all business. He gestures to Cronus, who sits beside you. He is only a few years older than you, but he certainly knows his place. He abuses it too, by the looks of it. He seems bored, playing absentmindedly with his greased-back locks, until his cell phone buzzes in his lap. He excuses himself with a grin, and answers it as he walks out of the room with a 'Heya, Mit, ' the hell do ya want? I'm in fuckin' London, chief!' You can't help but want to catch up with him. Isn't that what family members do when they see each other after a long time apart? It has been over a year now.

"So we decided to move the family business to Boston." Your father continues. You try to remember where Boston is. You aren't very good at geography, unless there's an ocean or a lake involved. "Near where your cousins live."

You understand. Your father is moving your family to America. He smiles warmly at you, but it is soon blurred out by tears. It doesn't matter, anyways, you know his smile is fake. Everything he does is fake, from his love for his employees to his love for his customers to his love for you. You scream at them. He is a cruel man who thinks only of himself and his money. You are slapped across the face for your blatant disrespect. He is a con man, a liar, and a cheat. You dodge your mother's open arms as you run up to your bedroom. He is a horrible man, a horrible husband, and a horrible father.

You are going to be just like him.

Less than a month later, and all your boxes and bags are in a plane over the Atlantic, on their way to a grand estate that you haven't even seen yet. You stopped crying almost as soon as you started, at least in front of people, because you know your father would be very disappointed in you. You suppose you have to man up and embrace your role as heir. You are too old to cry, anyways.

Your mother thinks otherwise, of course, and has been badgering you to talk about your damn feelings ever since. It's all, "please, Eridan, you must feel a little sad!" and and "don't you feel anything?" and "aren't you going to miss Feferi?" Little does she know, you haven't even spoken to Feferi since you found out, save for once in class when she passed you a note. It asked if you were ok, and you were suddenly very angry that she knew before you did. You crumpled up the note and glared at her, and that was the end of that. The bewildered look on her face hasn't left your mind since, but it's a little too late to regret anything now.

You use the hand that isn't holding your one, small, carry-on bag to open the front door and step outside, for the last time. You are cold and unfeeling, just as you are meant to be. Your parents are waiting for you on the porch, your father wearing another fake smile and your mother in her complimentary look of pity. You wish you didn't have to look at either of them. You push past them, greeting your chauffeur with a disinterested grunt as he holds the door to the limousine open for you. You step inside, not bothering to look back. The door is closed. You feel numb.

All of a sudden, you hear a tap on the window. You turn your head, and in that moment, all of your feelings come flooding back to you. All the happy, all the sad, all the angry, and all else. Feferi is standing there,waving at you and smiling a wide, warm, genuine smile. Her hair is up and tied with a pink bow, and she is clad in a matching sundress. She is holding a gift bag and gesturing excitedly for you to open the door. You oblige, flabbergasted. She doesn't wait for you to move, she merely flops down on your lap. You wrap your arms around your best friend and bury your face in the crook between her neck and her shoulder. An apology. She giggles and pets your hair. You are forgiven.

You let yourself cry on her shoulder, and she holds you. She is crying only a little bit. She is stronger than you are.

"Eridan..." She murmurs after what seems like only a few moments. You look up at her, and she offers you the gift bag. It is, of course, royal purple, and filled to the brim with matching tissue paper. You smile up at her and pull the tissue paper out carefully. On your lap, she bounces up and down in excitement. In the bag is a striped light and dark blue scarf. Upon taking it out, you see that it is quite a long one at that. You give Feferi a questioning look.

"It's a going away present." she explains as you pull out the soft, knit scarf, attempting to count the sheer feet of it. "Something to remember me by." You are, again, taken aback by this girl. You tie the scarf around your neck, and it smells brand new, and a little like her. You wrap your arms back around her, tightly.

"I could never forget you."


	2. Love for a Child

tw for attempted suicide, self-hate and cromit

chapters will be slower after this one, but stick with me! mwwah

* * *

Your name is Sollux Captor, and you fucking hate these things.

Your parents are holding another one of their infamous get-togethers in the backyard. You think every Hebrew in town is here, along with a bunch of your brother's friends, adding up to about sixty or seventy people, all squished in the yard, in the house, and of course, the pool. You don't know how the hell your family can afford all this, seeing as you are far from wealthy, but you understand how important entertaining is to them. Lots of things are important, like maintaining a kosher diet and studying the Torah whenever you have free time. And never doing anything fun.

You don't know how your brother does it, but Mituna gets away with so much. You're almost positive that all of his friends are either Christian or atheist, including his girlfriend, Latula. His hair is too long and his hobbies are too dangerous, but since he is the eldest son, he gets whatever he wants, you think. Three or four of his friends are here today, scaring all the little Hebrew kids splashing in the pool with their loud laughter. (He can't really swim, neither of you can, but you think you are the only two who know this, and you certainly aren't telling.) That is a sharp contrast to your one.

Your best friend, Karkat Vantas, is perfectly happy to sit in the living room playing xbox with you instead of joining the party. He likes people as much as you do, because they stare at him wherever he goes. He is albino, so hi skin, hair, and eyes all have no pigment, or color, at all. He appears white as a ghost, save for his bright red eyes. He can hardly go anywhere, especially not in the sun, and his eyesight is shit. He looks like he isn't real, and is constantly asked if he is in costume, or even if he is a ghost. To these, he usually answers sarcastically. Years of being treated as though he's a 'special snowflake' have made him seemingly cold and cynical, but you know that, deep down, he's a total softie.

Partygoers stop and watch you play, but the two of you find it difficult to watch your mouths, especially Karkat. You're grateful to him, though, not just for keeping you company, but also for looking different. You swear, everyone here looks exactly alike, and they are all variations of yourself. They all share your dark hair and skin tone and, you don't mean to be racist, but your pointy Jewish features. Granted, you do have your differences, seeing as most of them aren't six feet tall and thin as a twig. Also, although barely noticeable behind your favorite 3D glasses, you have heterochromia. It's mild- one hazel eye, almost yellow; one brown eye, almost black- but it's still part of you. You also doubt any one of these losers loves computers as much as you do, or shares your obsessions with primary colors and bees. You know, though, in a sea of people, you aren't really all that special.

Your brother is, though. You take your eyes off of your game for a moment, you were kicking KK's ass anyway, to stare and him and his friends. They're still out there, annoying everybody without even realising it. People are starting to go home now, and its getting dark out, but they're still splashing away. You notice how close your brother stands next to his friends, all of them- even the other boys, and you try not to be perturbed when you catch him steal a sly kiss from that greaser kid. Latula either doesn't notice or doesn't mind, and the two older boys just end up starting a splash war that extends to the entire pool.

Your brother is kind of weird, you think, and you don't always understand the things he does or the things you catch him do. You and he both know that homosexuality is wrong, at least according to your family and your culture, so despite the weird feelings you may find yourself experiencing, you go on getting crushes and dating girls. Mituna has a girlfriend, but this is certainly not the first time you've caught him kissing Cronus. You don't really mind, though. You look up to him far too much.

"Hey, asshole!" Karkat says, snapping you out of your trance. You turn to him, cheeks hot with embarrassment. He knows you too well. He cocks his head and places a hand on your shoulder, just staring at you. The game is apparently paused.

"Stop looking at me like that." You tell him, your uneven teeth again causing the 's' to sound more like 'th'. It always does that, unless you pay close attention. You hate it, just like you hate the rest of you. Everyone loves you, for some reason, and at school, you are Mr Popularity, but you know that you aren't worth shit. You could never be as great as your brother, or anyone else. You aren't even a nice guys, and you aren't sure why people flock to you. Maybe its because you can fix their laptops.

Karkat has grown used to your lisp by now, and doesn't notice it. He merely looks away and starts the game again.

Its dark now, and you've long since won your game against Karkat, leaving him to chase you around the house and cuss like you've never heard anyone cuss before. He, along with most of the party guests, have gone home now, and your father has left his precious grill to entertain the few that are still there. This includes your mother, a couple of your cousins, and some of the town's Jewish bigwigs. They laugh and chat and share stories, and they all look the same.

Latula has gone home, too, giving you and your brother each a kiss on the cheek. Now, the only one of Mituna's friends left is Cronus, and the two of them are back by the pool together. You know because as soon as Latula left your driveway in her mother's Subaru, you saw Mituna drag his friend out back by the hand. You figure the two of them are out in the pool looking for peace, or merely some alone time. The people inside are boring you, and their idle chatter is making you wish you were outside with your brother.

You slip off, out the sliding back door. Mituna and Cronus can't see you, thanks to a large holly bush, and they can't hear you either. You aren't sure you want them to, because as soon as you step outside, you sense tension, and you feel like you shouldn't be there. Of course, you stay anyway, moving closer still. You're behind the bush, and through the branches, you can see the two older boys.

They're in the water, about knee-deep, and Cronus' hands are gripping Mituna's waist. Their foreheads are pressed together and you imagine they are whispering sweet nothings as they stare into each other's eyes, but you can't hear them. You find yourself in a trance, watching your brother trail his long, tanned fingers down Cronus' pale face and neck. This is the most incredible thing you have ever seen. They are so intimate- two boys! You can hardly believe it, let alone look away. You strain your ears to hear them, moving closer yet, without even really noticing.

You freeze when Cronus leans down to kiss Mituna, who moves his hands to tangle in the taller boy's hair. You think you hear a muffled growl- 'I just greased that, how dare you fuck it up'- but your brother merely grins and presses closer to Cronus. He responds by pushing Mituna to the edge of the pool, surprising him and gaining a yelp in return. Cronus takes that and works with it, kissing him more forcefully and filling the both of them with a visible sense of raw desperation. You see them tug and pull at each other, and you gasp and groan when your brother does, in perfect harmony. You should not be aroused, but you are, because at thirteen, this desperate fleeting lust between the brother you so admire and his gorgeous leather-clad friend is mysterious, magnificent, and all too enchanting.

Cronus pulls back as suddenly as he leaned in, and you half wish he hadn't; you were enjoying the show. Your brother's usually dark face is beet red, and his eyes are half-lidded and staring up at his friend. The taller boy pushes Mituna's hair back out of his eyes, and he's looking at him like he is the most beautiful thing in the entire world. Mituna goes up on his tiptoes and presses a little kiss to Cronus' nose. You almost want to "aww..." at the simple cuteness of it all, but you don't, for fear of ruining the moment, let alone being caught. You wonder what it would be like to kiss another man, to fall in love with another man, to touch ano-

"Mituna..." You are pulled out of your thoughts (thank God, saved by the bell) by Cronus' voice, for once soft and serious. It is intimate, you note, the kind of voice held only by friends sharing secrets, or in this case, lovers sharing sweet nothings. Your brother seems to know what is coming, this has happened all too many times before, and he tears himself away, looking defiantly up at the stars.

"Don't." he warns, suddenly cold. Cronus winces, but is otherwise undeterred. He wraps his arms around Mituna from behind, who suddenly looks like he would rather be anywhere but here, and rests his chin on his shoulder. Mituna remains unresponsive.

"I love you." Cronus continues, and you gasp just as Mituna does. His eyes widen in shock, and he grips the hands on his abdomen tighter than you have ever seen him grip anything, even his beloved skateboard. His cold wall has been broken down, with a mere three words, and you are blown away. It is entirely too romantic. Mituna opens his mouth to respond, and you lean towards them, eagerly awaiting his reply.

"Really?" your brother asks, voice full of fear. You are quite disappointed, and rather confused. From what you have seen, the connection that the two share is far greater than any mere physical desire. And then it hits you- Latula. Your brother is supposedly in love with her. He has said so, he has told you, but what about Cronus? You have never seen Mituna so intimate as he is tonight with Latula. Surely, he mustn't love her as much as he does Cronus. He knows he cannot have both, and you know it, and Cronus knows it. It seems as though he must decide between his feelings and his life. For you, the decision seems obvious, but Mituna looks distressed, and his face has gone from red to ghostly pale.

"Yeah." Cronus replies quietly. Mituna turns around quickly and kisses him, and in the moonlight, you can see that his face is damp from tears. You realise when he pulls away for a ragged, desperate breath, that you do not know your brother at all.

An old Chevrolet, blaring dangerously loud music and containing what looks like about twelve teenagers pulls into the driveway and beeps twice. Cronus turns to look at them, a fleeting glance, then returns to staring at Mituna.

"That's my ride." he says. He is not expecting anything, but still he waits for something. Mituna grips his shirt, holding him rooted where he stands, and you swear, for a moment, you see desperation in his eyes. You wish he would say something, you wish he would hold Cronus, you wish he would bury his head in Cronus' neck and just breathe him in. For the moment, you are Cronus, and instead of feeling simple admiration for Mituna, you feel his love, and you are heartbroken. You almost join them, beg him to stay like you want your brother to, bring them both to a secluded location that only the three of you can know and just leave them there, alone together, forever. But nothing lasts forever, you know that, and when Cronus turns to leave, he places a little kiss on Mituna's forehead, a silent goodbye.

Mituna stares after him, not minding if he is crying, because he thinks he's all alone. He opens his mouth to speak, to call Cronus back, stretching his arm out in his direction. You think, you hope, to tell him he loves him too, but he retreats. A freak act of fate, you decide, an obscure piece of rotten luck. You are disgusted, so angry you could scream or cry or hurt something. How could your brother do this? Why is he letting himself live a lie? You don't understand. You are too young, you suppose, to really be seeing any of this.

You watch Mituna sit on the edge of the pool, feet dangling over the sides and into the water, and you can hear the car driving off in the distance. He should have stopped them from leaving like this. You know you would have. You decide to go comfort your brother, or at the very least yell at him. You stumble clumsily out from behind your bush, loud enough for probably the entire street to hear you, but Mituna does not. He is too lost in his thoughts.

"Mituna!" You call, as you run up to him. He whips his head around with a look of terror that softens only slightly when he realises that its you. He moves to stand, a greeting, or an act of caution, you are unsure. The grass around the pool is still wet from earlier, and it is slippery and hard to run, but you are on a mission and you hardly even notice.

"Sollux?" Your brother starts. He looks frightened and confused, but you can't focus on that, nor can you hear what he is about to say, because all of a sudden, you're slipping. Your feet slide on the grass and you attempt to grab Mituna for support, but, like you, he is skinny and not very strong. Instead, you end up falling into him, and pushing him down with you. He lands on the ground, hitting his head, and you fall face first into the pool. You realise that now would be a good time to know how to swim.

You scramble up, or at least where you think up is, because it is too dark to follow a light, and you are far too disoriented to remember which way you fell. You are desperately trying to hold your breath, and your lungs are screaming at you. Just as you are about to resign to your fate, you hear a splash beside you, and you can feel strong hands pulling you up. You sputter as your face hits the air, and you take a deep breath in, coughing up chlorinated water. After a moment, you reach in to help your brother, but he hasn't come up yet.

Oh right. He can't swim either.

You yell to the people in the house, but get impatient quickly. It only takes a few seconds to drown, and it takes you much less than that to jump back in the pool after attempt to pull him up when you reach him, but he is panicking, thrashing about and unable to keep calm. He tries to push you up, let you live, but you refuse, doing the same for him. You are stuck at what seems like a fatal stalemate, until, suddenly, he stops. You hear your parents coming towards you, terrified for you, but Mituna is still. A look of realisation crosses his face, and as your father reaches the pool, he smiles at you. He has found his solution. He waves and you scream, because he can fix this, he's your brother. He's perfect and wonderful and all he has to do is let his heart decide, like the characters in your video games or the movies that he used to watch with you until you told him you were too old for that. He's careless and reckless and your family's favorite, and without him, nothing would ever be the same. You love him and look up to him, and he is not a quitter, you know he isn't. At least you thought he did, but you realise tonight that you have no idea who he is.

He takes a deep breath in.


	3. Take a Hint

wow this chapter took forever due to a bunch of consecutive personal problems and then my computer crashed and agh general downward spiral sorry!

also this chapter is a bit longer than the first two. the rest will be about this length i think? ah well! thanks for sticking with me!

* * *

Your name is Eridan Ampora and you are sixteen years old. You live in a large estate on the outskirts of Boston, Massachusetts, past where asphalt turns to grass and grass turns to sand, where the bay shines and glitters. Here, it is not forgotten in the noise and bustle of the big city, but cherished for the magnificent entity that it is by your family. However, you are the only people who live here, thanks to your father's need for security, and you think no one else can appreciate the quiet, not in this town. You have lived here for five years, and spend your days either in the peaceful serenity of your secluded home, or in the busy excitement that can be found in the city. You love the tall buildings, jumbled voices and strange faces as much as you love the sound of waves and the simple tranquility. The two together have become like home, though they are only a replacement of a place you know better, where you belong. You are used to both places, and they have become one in the same to you. After all, it is easy to be forgotten in a crowd of people, and though they are polar opposites, in both places you are alone.

You have changed an awful lot since you left the United Kingdom. First of all, you are older, obviously, and have matured quite a bit, both mentally and physically. You still have your mother's pretty face, but you look a little more like a man now. The dimple in your chin is more pronounced, your nose is straighter and your eyes are smaller. You still look admittedly feminine, but your body has developed like that of a swimmer, and though you are petite, you are strong. You never lost your freckles, and only gain more whenever you step outside. Your glasses are smaller, but are still chunky black squares, and your eyesight has gotten slightly worse due to long nights of excessive blogging. You have also since dyed a bright purple streak up the fringe of your hair, and stretched your ears half an inch.

Currently, it is a cool October morning, but you aren't outside enjoying nature's beauty. Quite the opposite, in fact. You are sitting in study, which, in your opinion, is the most ridiculous waste of your precious time. You hardly do anything at all in the class, other than sit there wishing you could be anywhere else. The adults in this dreadful public school are always talking about how you ought to use your time wisely and do your work and all this crap, but you tend not to listen to them. They're all idiots, you think, and they're paid to care.

You lay your head down on your desk, headphones blaring showtunes and dubstep. Fuck yes. Your "me time" with your music is probably the only thing you like about this class. Although, you must admit, the kid who sits diagonally behind you makes the class a bit more interesting. Since school started last month, he's been staring enchantedly at you from his seat, not caring that you notice, and smirking whenever you make eye contact. It kind of creeps you out, but you also find it quite flattering. Nobody pays that much attention to you. He hasn't said a single word in your direction, but you understand. He's not the type.

His name is... what, Alex? Something like that, you think. He's always with his obnoxious friends, when he isn't busy staring at you, and, judging by them, he's the type of jerk who pushes around kids who walk with a sway or talk with a lisp. He probably even calls people faggot unironically. Granted, you haven't actually seen him do it, but you're all about science. You can make an educated guess.

Speaking of things you're all about, your iPod is on shuffle, and it seems to be favoring you today. It just started playing Legally Blonde's "Gay or European." You chuckle a little into your arm. More like your theme song. You know that most of the people you come in contact with assume that you're gay, because of certain stereotypes that you adhere to, and that's probably why they bully you so much. It's a valid assumption, you guess, you do tend to prefer men, but that doesn't mean you can't appreciate the female body, too. You like to think everybody deserves appreciation, from the other boys in the locker room to the girls on the swim team, you don't differentiate. You don't really have a type, either, a lot of traits attract you in a person, and you can make do.

The kid staring at you certainly fits that description, you think. He might be an asshole, but he's also the tall, dark, and handsome kind. He's got to be tall, you guess. He's on the basketball team, number twenty-two. You can't understand for the life of you why, because you've seen him on the court, and he has about as much coordination as a giraffe on roller skates. They hardly ever play him, not unless they're absolutely desperate, and even then, you would rather play the damned cheerleaders than... whatever his name is. He's got potential, though, and he could be a real good-looking guy if he tried. His features are narrow and defined, and he's skinny as hell, but there's some substance to him, you can tell. With that gorgeous dark skin, he looks just like an indian prince. You imagine what it must look like under that... is that a minecraft tee shirt?

You pull out of your trance with the awful clothing choice and grimace. You look up, blushing when you meet clumsy's gaze. He winks at you behind his novelty 3D glasses and you whip your head back around. You hear him laugh, smug, from behind you, and you want to melt into the floor. God, how embarrassing. You won't let him catch you doing that again- in fact, you won't do it. He didn't deserve your acknowledgement in the first place. A fuckin minecraft tee shirt.

At least you can say you have style. Your clothes are all designer, bought in the city or imported from various parts of the world. You make it a point to wear something purple every day, sometimes as small as a bracelet, or as big as a jacket. Today, it's the collared shirt under you sweater, complimented nicely by the yellow in your kicks. Your light-wash skinny jeans are probably too tight in most people's opinions, but whatever, you know your ass looks great in them. You also accessorise fabulously with kandi bracelets in all colors of the rainbow, mostly purple and pink, and of course, your favorite blue striped scarf. You've had it for as long as you can remember, and you incorporate it into your daily outfits as often as possible. It's pretty much your prized possession.

You pull it up over your chin, breathing warm air through it and smelling the familiar scent. This is home, you decide. Not the large, empty house on the outskirts of your city, not the the crowded public school for which you have no spirit, no love. The warm, knit, scarf that you have had longer than anything, that is still longer than you are, and that is as blue as the ocean and the eyes of the girl who presented it to you so many years ago. This is home. You smile against the fleece at the thought of her, falling limp against your desk and forgetting about study hall entirely.

Forgetting, that is, until a paper dragonfly hits you square in the back. Your conscious tells you to turn around and flick it right back at skinny's fucking face, but you decide to be the bigger person and ignore him. You turn your music up louder, drowning out the class with a little angry Skrillex. You can't even hardly hear him whine dejectedly behind you. You smile a little to yourself. He's going to have to work harder than that if he wants attention from you, and, to your surprise, that's exactly what he does.

You can't hear him get up out of his seat over the bass pounding in your ears, and you don't see him until he plops down backwards into the seat in front of you. You jump in surprise, and he smirks at you, proud of himself. You roll your eyes and take your headphones out. What a jackass.

"Can I help you?" you ask him, trying to sound uninterested. You suppose it works, because the expression on his face changes to a playful pout. If you weren't so distracted by his personality, you would think it is rather endearing. However, it doesn't last very long, and he leans in to speak to you, looking at you with eyes that can only be described as smoldering. You don't trust them.

"Your accent is adorable," he says, ignoring you sass, and oh my God, is that a lisp? "Where are you from?" You're momentarily distracted by how ridiculously gay he sounds. You answer him before you have the chance to wonder whether he's making fun of you.

"Moved here from England in the sixth grade." you tell him, avoiding words that bring out your stutter. You are all too used to the question, as though nobody knows what a fuckin British accent sounds like. They've all seen Harry Potter, they know. He looks very interested, like he actually really cares about the sob story that is your life history, and you suddenly understand why he's so popular with women. You've seen him with the cheerleaders and the bimboes and the party girls. They're all over him, and you used to wonder why, but you get it now. He makes them feel special.

"Really?" he asks, eyes bright behind his glasses, and you swear one is lighter than the other. You narrow your own eyes at him. He seems unfazed. You can practically see the dishonesty behind his warm smile.

"Yes, really." You reply, allowing your annoyance to be apparent in your words. You put your headphones back in, even though they aren't playing anything, if only to pretend to drown him out. He looks mildly offended, but still isn't swayed. Instead, he leans even closer to you, with that great big crooked smile of his, and pulls the headphones from your ears. It probably would be considered flirting, if he weren't so vehemently straight, and if it weren't so sudden.

"Hey, has anyone ever told you that you look like a porcelain doll?" He asks you, dropping his voice low so only you can hear. It wouldn't matter anyway, no one else is paying attention, but you certainly are. You feel your face heat up, at his closeness at least, and you aren't sure whether to be shocked or flattered or creeped out. You choose the latter after a moment of the former and glare at him.

"Swimming isn't really a sport that mandates a lot of sunlight," you explain when you regain your cool, matter-of-factly. Of course, you probably could blame your pale skin on your heritage as well, but the last thing you want is to open yourself up for more questions. You doodle casually on the desk, little waves and sea creatures, anything to keep yourself from looking at him. You refuse to give him your full attention; he doesn't deserve the time of day. You can still feel his eyes on you, though, and hell if he doesn't look enamored when you finally do glance up at him.

"A really pretty porcelain doll..." he continues, apparently not caring whether you are a swimmer or the president of the United States. You're sure your face is beet red by now. You are astonished, not only by the odd compliment, although that is certainly astonishing enough, but by his determination. No one at this school puts as much effort into your day as he is right now. You suppose you have to give him credit for that. Unfortunately, the bell rings before you have time to retort. You quickly pick up your things, glad to be rid of this dreadful class and this annoying kid.

He follows you, though, panicked. It seems his plan has been foiled by some bad scheduling. You would laugh if you weren't ignoring him like paparazzi. He calls after you, but you pretend you can't hear. Head back, shoulders high. Eventually, he catches up to you, much to your dismay, halfway down the hallway, all out of breath and you raise an incredulous brow at him. He puts his hand on your shoulder and holds up a finger, catching his breath, like he just ran a marathon. You stare at it in mild disgust. You could have sworn people only do that in cartoons,

"Listen, hey, we didn't finish our conversation." He points out when he's good and ready. "Why don't you give me your number so we can can tonight?" He smiles sheepishly, and you almost crack up laughing at how ridiculous he sounds asking for your number with that lisp. You continue walking, surprising him, and he follows obediently, like a lost puppy.

"Absolutely not." You tell him, not even looking at him. You congratulate yourself for not breaking stride, and for keeping your face straight, impassive. He's behind you now, but you feel like he's under your feet or on a leash, and you allow yourself a smirk. You are in control. That's better; just what you want, just how you like it. He says something, but you don't hear him over the noise in the hall, or so you think. However, when you turn around to check that he's still there, he's a few meters back, with his hands in his pockets and his head hung low. He looks so pathetic, as if, because you rejected him, his life isn't worth living. You take pity on him, despite your better judgement, and go back to where he stands. He doesn't respond, so you put your hand on his arm, gently, as though you're afraid to break him. You sort of are, too; he seems so weak all of a sudden. He looks up, a small, sad smile on his face, and part of you knows he's faking, but despite all your conditioning not to, you still have feelings, and right now, he needs you. Even for something so mundane, so irrelevant to any aspect of your life, even though he's a complete stranger, and not even one that you like, he needs you. Nobody's ever needed you before.

"Could I at least have your name?" he asks, and you know if you tell him, he'll think he can have anything, but you just can't find it in your heart to say no.

"Eridan Ampora." You say, trying in vain to sound, to be, annoyed with him. He grins like he has never been happier in his entire life, and repeats it back to you, as if tasting it, savoring it. He plays around with it like this for a few moments, until you clear your throat.

"Sollux Captor," he lisps, and you don't realize how late you are until the bell rings and he runs off, leaving you standing there and still sporting that jagged smile of his.

Oh yeah. That's his name.

...

When you return home a few hours later, you are unimpressed with the vibrant gold and crimson leaves all over the lawn and in the air. They clash brilliantly with the stock-white manor in the background, and the white seashells that make up the long, narrow driveway, and the white sand of the beach off in the distance. Nature has too many colors, you note, too much life, and it interrupts the pure achromatic oasis that is your home. The marble pillars that hold up your front porch are littered with the remains of summer and the tiny window sills that hold daisies and violets in the spring are filled to the brim with cold, wet leaves. The only part of the yard that doesn't stand out are the trees, which are black and brittle skeletons, dead for winter. The pool around back is covered for the winter, and the barn beside the mansion is closed. The horses inside are white, too. This place was meant to be like heaven, pure and pristine, but you suppose that the warm fall colors are a welcome interruption, really, because you can only have so much heaven before an oasis turns into a cell.

You are, as usual, home alone, you find, when your chauffeur pulls up to the door. Your nurse is waiting for you on the porch, and she only ever does that when she knows your parents aren't going to be there, which is quite often. She just got here from the high school as well, she is the same age as you are, but her older sister and her mother have probably been here all day. She smiles at you and curtsies, knowing full well she doesn't have to, but simply because she wants to.

The Leijon family have been your devoted live-in servants for years, and your maid Nepeta is no different. She waits on you hand and foot, and has since her family deemed her old enough. Before that, it was her sister Meulin, who works with your cousin, down the street, now. Mrs. Leijon herself works a multitude of jobs for your parents and is especially active in holding down the fort when they are away. They are all a splash of color from the heart of Mexico, and have become like family to you. They live in the small apartment above your garage, but they spend more time in your house, especially Nepeta.

You smile back at her, a little forced, because you feel obligated to. You aren't friends, not really, just people. She knows you like the back of your hand, but you don't know anything about her, besides her love for cats and her childish tendencies. You follow her into the house, the main foyer bright with sunlight, but a little cold. Nepeta runs off to turn on the fireplace, and you head to the kitchen. Mrs. Leijon isn't there, but there are fish tacos waiting for you in the microwave, and you eat as though you've never eaten before.

After your snack, you head up to your room. You reside in the loft above the house, up a spiral staircase and down an empty hallway. You have a private bathroom, painted a light, delicate lavender and decorated with seahorses- figurines, printed soap holders and bottles, towels, and even your toilet seat cover. When you were younger, the massive jacuzzi bathtub was accompanied by rubber seahorses, much like the rubber ducks that other children played with. You've always loved the animals, and admire their carefree innocence. They take responsibility for their young as fathers and care for them dearly, just like humans. At least, most humans.

You have a few of them yourself, in one of the fish tanks that light your bedroom. There are three tanks, large ones, separating predator from prey. In one, there are the seahorses, clownfish and other brightly colored tropical fish, little crabs, periwinkles, and starfish, most of them hidden amongst a rainbow of coral and faux seaweed. The second tank contains your bigger friends; lionfish, cuttlefish, angelfish, pufferfish, spider crabs and horseshoe crabs, who, in any other situation would probably not get along, but, in your care swim merrily together. In the last tank, farthest from any light source and the biggest of the three, live your jellyfish. Shrouded in darkness, the dangerous little beauties glow pink, green, and blue, and float aimlessly in the black water. You love them and find them mysterious and enchanting. Your mother bought them for you when you moved in, heaven knows where, and you have had them ever since.

The parts of your room not occupied by fish tanks are, for the most part, empty, besides the middle of the room, where your king-sized bed sits elegantly, topped with lavender sheets and a royal purple Native American style quilt. (bought for you in Mexico when your parents were there, very expensive) Your pillows are goose down, and soft as hell, and a plush seahorse rests happily between them. In a corner of your room, beside one of your tanks is your desk, one of the few things in the room that isn't purple, however, the laptop that sits blankly upon it is. So are the walls, and the carpet under the bed, put there to soften the shiny hardwood floor. Your dim lights are purple too, keeping your room a constant dance floor. You admittedly have treated it as such on many an occasion. The walls are not bare, in fact, they showcase your various interests. There are posters for musicals and bands, and old Navy recruiting information is tacked up above your desk. There is a huge map of the world on one wall, next to more military propaganda. You regard it all fondly as you flop down on your bed.

Perhaps the most important part of your room is beside the tank of jellies. Your large, walk-in closet, where all your clothes live, is big enough to house a small family, and contains enough clothing, shoes, and accessories to satisfy three. Part of you thinks it may open up to a magical world on the other side, that is, if magic were real. Which it isn't. And anyway, the only secret about this wardrobe is the vast selection of women's clothing hidden in the back. You quite enjoy going out in drag, and you have never once been called out as a boy. In fact, you make a gorgeous woman, with the help of your wigs and makeup. Your parents don't care enough to question, or even notice really, so you are pretty much free to do whatever you want with them.

You lie back on your bed and cuddle your seahorse plush. You are tired and lazy, and even though it is hardly three o'clock, you are ready for sleep. You don't, however, exercising a bit of self control, and instead take out your cell phone. You are delighted to see that you have two new text messages. One is from Karkat, your little albino friend, and the other is a long distance text from Feferi. You grin at it, but reply to Karkat first.

cG: HEY DOUCHEBAG. ANSWER ME.

cA: oh hey kar just got home. wwhats up

cG: TALK TO ANYONE WITH A LISP LATELY?

You are a bit surprised, but not entirely so. Karkat knows just about everyone in your school, just because everyone likes him, or at least likes to tease him, and you're pretty sure you've seen him with Sollux at least once. You are less creeped out this time, and more flattered that he's been talking about you. Maybe he's a nicer person than you thought, you wonder. You then remember the porcelain doll comment and take it back.

cA: yeah, sollux. he's kinda a wweirdo. wwhy? has he been talkin about me?

cG: NONSTOP. ITS LIKE HE CAN'T DECIDE WHETHER HE WANTS TO MURDER YOU OR YOU'RE THE NEXT ORLANDO BLOOM.

cG: IF I DIDN'T KNOW HIM ANY BETTER, I WOULD THINK HE HAD A FUCKING CRUSH ON YOU.

You laugh to yourself at that, spreading your body out across the bed. You are positive that Sollux is straight and just making fun of you. Elaborately, yes, but you don't doubt his heterosexuality, not one bit. People are mean, it's one of the few traits that every human is born with. You admit Sollux is attractive, very, but guys like him just don't like guys like you, not honestly. It doesn't work that way. Besides, you are way too good for him.

cA: yeah right. i'm sure mr straight himself totally wwants me

cG: NO REALLY. HE WON'T STOP FUCKING TALKING ABOUT HOW HE HATES HOW NICE YOUR SKIN IS AND HOW PRETTY YOUR FACE IS AND HOW FUCKING PURPLE YOUR GODDAMN EYES ARE.

cG: I DON'T EVEN KNOW HOW HE CAN SEE YOUR EYES UNDER THOSE FUCKING GLASSES BUT I DIGRESS.

You blush and hug your seahorse tighter. This is getting ridiculous. You refuse to believe the stupid, skinny, uncoordinated kid in your study hall has a crush on you. Nobody ever has crushes on you, not that you know of anyway, and even if people did, he would certainly be the last person you would expect to. He puts down people like you, he doesn't want to bang you. It's too unreal a notion. You let Karkat rant and rave about it a bit longer, but you mostly ignore him. You know an elaborate joke when you see one, but it will take a lot more than a few very specific compliments to win you over. You expect all of this to be over in the morning.

The text you received from Feferi was one of her regular "I love you" text messages that she sends when she's emotional, or when she misses you. It's meant to be platonic, you know, and you don't particularly mind, because you gave up your childhood crush a long time ago. You still love her with all your heart, but as a sister, and as your best friend. You don't really have a choice, because the only time you see her is during summer break, or on a late-night skype call, so you let her go, and you feel much better about your relationship now. Feferi has changed an awful lot, too, just like you. She is tan, blonde, and curvy, and is popular with boys and girls alone, on just her looks alone, not to mention her winning personality. She can be a bit spoiled at times, but she is very interested in the rights, freedoms, and liberations of the less-fortunate. A noble cause, you suppose, but you don't agree with her on a lot of her points. The two of you are very different, but you love each other just the same.

You text her back, the same three words, and for the rest of the afternoon and evening, you forget all about Karkat and Sollux. You spend your time on your blog and with your fish, only leaving the solitary confines of your bedroom to eat dinner, which was prepared for you by Mrs Leijon. Your maids are having a family meal together in their own dining room so you share it instead with RuPaul and his drag race. You don't mind being alone, and actually relish the solitude, but when you finally lay down to sleep in what you can't tell is late night or early morning, you can't help but wonder what it would be like if someone were lying beside you.


End file.
